Missing Clues and Wayward Cases
by Hades Lord of the Dead
Summary: A place for any of my loose responses and chapters that no longer have a home, following a recent overhaul to my account and old stories. Rated T for safety.
1. CONTENTS

**A/N: **I am in the process of going through and removing a few of my stories, some to delete and some to eventually edit and republish. I have grown up a lot since I first started on this site, and (hopefully!) my writing has developed as I have. Because most of my writing on here has been done via certain challenges, there are a few floating responses I don't want to delete or remove, but which are too few to have kept published under the original challenge. So, here we are!

Hopefully this contents page will update as I do, but fair warning that there will almost definitely be a lag.

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**CONTENTS:**

1\. **CONTENTS**

2\. Frozen \- _frozen -_ **Friendship. **Originally posted as a response to prompt 5 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge.

3\. Colleague \- _colleague__ \- _**Friendship, Poetry. **Originally posted as a response to prompt 10 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge.

4\. Docks \- _docks - _**Angst****. **Originally posted as a response to prompt 18 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge.

5\. Reins \- _reins - _**Angst. **Originally posted as a response to prompt 43 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge.

6\. Ignite \- _ignite - _**Hurt/Comfort. **Originally posted as a response to prompt 44 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge.

7\. Thoughtful \- _thoughtful - _**Hurt/Comfort, Friendship.**Originally posted as a response to prompt 45 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge.

8\. Sarcastic \- _sarcastic - _**Humour. **Originally posted as a response to prompt 48 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge.

9\. Elaborate \- _elaborate - _**Friendship, Humour. **Originally posted as a response to prompt 50 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge.

10\. Interrogation \- _interrogation - _**Hurt/Comfort. **Originally posted as a response to prompt 51 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge.

11\. Liberty \- _liberty - _**Friendship, Tragedy. **Originally posted as a response to prompt 52 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge.

12\. Of Women and Deerstalkers \- _The hat _\- **Friendship, Humour.** December 2nd response from December Calendar Challenge 2012.

13\. Beast \- _Taming the Hound of the Baskervilles _\- **Friendship. **December 14th response from December Calendar Challenge 2012.

14\. Welcome Home \- _Favourite music _\- **Friendship. **December 19th response from December Calendar Challenge 2012.

15\. Beyond \- _Angel _\- **Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Supernatural. **December 20th response from December Calendar Challenge 2012.


	2. Frozen

**A/N: **Originally posted as a response to prompt 5 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge, from way back when. Prompt word is the title.

* * *

Frozen

I have commented before that the country, though a seemingly charming place, can also be rather a solitary one. I was never reminded of this more than in my years of retirement, which I spent for the most part in my little cottage in Sussex. In the winter, temperatures would drop, frost would gather and I did not dare to venture out to the nearby village, for fear of a nasty slip on the frost and straight over the seaside cliffs. I was, effectively, snowed in.

I was surprised therefore when, during one particularly cold December, instead of the regular rattling of the window panes in the wind I heard instead a rapping on the door. Puzzled, I went to answer it.

"H- hello Holmes."

"Watson!" It was indeed my old friend, shivering on the front doorstep. "You look half frozen! Come in, come in."

He nodded gratefully and stepped inside, shutting the door quickly behind him. "I am terribly sorry to intrude like this."

"It's quite alright," I replied, taking his damp coat and hanging it up as we headed through to the living room. "I must ask though – what problem is it you wish me to look into?"

His eyebrows drew together in confusion. "Problem?"

"Watson you are not prone to making unannounced visits, unless the situation truly calls for it. And the only situation I can think of which would entail you calling unannounced on me is that you have some case you wish me to look into. So, what is this case? It must be important indeed for you to call me out of retirement." This last sentence had been spoken mostly in jest, though I thought I sensed a certain change in his expression. It was not guilt exactly but perhaps… embarrassment?

"I am afraid I have no problem for you to look into for me Holmes." He smiled sheepishly. "When this cold snap hit I tried to telegram, but received no reply… I was worried. "


	3. Colleague

**A/N:** Originally posted as a response to prompt 10 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge, from way back when. Prompt word is the title.

* * *

Colleague

"Friend" before "colleague";

It's the perfect example

Of heart before mind.


	4. Docks

A/N: Originally posted as a response to prompt 18 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge, from way back when. Prompt word is the title.

* * *

Docks

"Where were you wounded?"

"Maiwand."

The soldier next to me whistles. We are both gazing out over the ship's railing. "Lucky man, to get out of there with your life," he says. His lower left leg is missing and I can feel an ache growing in my own injured limbs; England is drawing nearer.

"And yourself?"

"Ahmed Khel [1]. It was barely a graze, but then it got infected."

I nod in sympathy, having seen many lose their limbs this way. More often than not amputation was the best choice when infection set in.

"We shall be in England soon," The man's tanned skin contrasts his white hair - he has been a soldier for a long time. "After so long in a foreign land, I wonder if it will still feel like home." He looks side-wards at me with old, sad eyes. I wonder if mine will look like that when I reach his age. Perhaps they already do. "How about you? Do you have any family... a wife, waiting for you?"

"No." The outline of the shore is growing sharper against the overcast sky. "None."

Neither of us speak again. Eventually, when the ship does come to dock I realise, with a pang of sadness, that he was right.

This is not home.

* * *

[1] Ahmed Khel was another battle in the Second Anglo Afghan War. As far as I can tell it was thought just over a month before The Battle of Maiwand.


	5. Reins

A/N: Originally posted as a response to prompt 43 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge, from way back when. Prompt word is the title.

* * *

Reins

Having grown up in the countryside, I have some experience with riding and when offered the opportunity to make use of a grateful client's horses after the successful conclusion of his case, I accepted eagerly. Trains to London from this particular area of England were infrequent, and I hoped riding would occupy me until the following day, when the next was due to arrive. Watson voiced his intention to join me, and I confess I was quite curious.

"You have experience in horse riding Watson?" I asked as the stablehands prepared our mounts.

"I did a great deal in my youth." He smiled, perhaps at some memory I was not privy to. "It has been some time."

I would have asked why that was, but the horses were ready and we led them outside.

For the most part Watson showed great skill - greater than my own, certainly. Just an hour in, however, he began to flag and after leading his horse through a jump he grunted in pain. I looked over and spotted a visible stiffening of his shoulder beneath his tweed coat, followed by a convulsive tightening of his hand. He beheld the involuntary movement with a mixture of horror and pain and I decided to call it a day.

It was with no little sadness that he relinquished the reins to the stable boy, rubbing ruefully at his shoulder and no doubt cursing the bullet which had weakened it so.


	6. Ignite

**A/N:** Originally posted as a response to prompt 44 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge, from way back when. Prompt word is the title.

* * *

Ignite

My fingers were numb, trembling with cold, and I swore as another of my matches broke against the box.

"An expletive learnt in your army days, eh Watson?"

I jumped and swore again, inciting a chuckle from the darkness. "Holmes! How long have you been in here?"

"Around an hour, I would estimate." His voice, though distant, was a welcome sound. At least I was no longer alone in this place. "It is not surprising we have not bumped into one another before now. These crypts are rather large."

"Don't remind me," I muttered. "Are you alright?"

"Fine. The chloroform has quite worn off."

"Chloroform?"

"Yes. They drugged my tea." I could by now just about make out his tall, spare figure approaching me through the gloom. "And yourself?"

"Well enough. Though I don't for the life of me understand what they hoped to achieve by shutting us both in here."

"I imagine they are of the belief we shall starve to death," he answered, tone deceptively light as he reached out and wrested the matchbox from my icy fingers. "Or freeze, perhaps." There was a hard edge to his words now which had not been present before. "How long have you been here Watson?"

"I'm not entirely sure," I admitted. "They jumped me in the early evening, but I've little clue how much time has passed since then. I sustained a blow to the head and was barely conscious when they brought me down."

The candle flared into life at last. Holmes looked me over critically by its light.

"It seems they've done rather a number on you old chap," he murmured after a moment, eyes lingering on the areas of my face I knew to be bruised. "Come. Let's try and get out of this place."

"With pleasure," I replied, and side by side, we went to do just that.


	7. Thoughtful

A/N: Originally posted as a response to prompt 10 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge, from way back when. Prompt word is the title.

* * *

Thoughtful

Holmes is often thoughtful. He thinks, muses, contemplates. And when his meditative silences turn dark and brooding, Watson knows it is time to start checking the levels of morphine in his medical bag again. Watson himself is a man of action. He does his best not to reflect on the past, but prefers to walk or treat patients or write in his journal.

So one morning, when Holmes enters the living room to see his flatmate curled up, miserable, in his armchair (a position he is far more used to occupying himself!), rubbing angrily at his shoulder and glaring daggers at the storm brewing outside, he doesn't quite know what to do. Dealing with "black moods" is Watson's forte, not his. He thinks for a few moments, and decides that action is what is needed here. Moving over to Watson's writing desk, he opens the drawer he knows holds a chess set, and pulls it out.

"Fancy a game?"


	8. Sarcastic

**A/N:** Originally posted as a response to prompt 48 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge, from way back when. Prompt word is the title.

* * *

Sarcastic

"There you go," Mr Holmes announced, marching into Scotland Yard with a self-satisfied air I would soon become well acquainted (_too_ well acquainted) with. "Perhaps now I have proven myself?"

A constable hurrying in behind the so-called 'Consulting Detective' quickly revealed that Mr Holmes had just closed eighteen of our open cases and left the various culprits downstairs.

"Apart from the robbery in Shoreditch," Holmes corrected the poor constable. "That one has no culprit - the antique tea set is behind Mrs Winter's largest armchair, in the living room."

I spluttered incomprehensibly and, when I finally did speak, all I could find to say was, "Eighteen?"

"That was what you said I would have to do in order to prove my skills!"

"I... I..." I could scarcely breathe with laughter, but managed eventually to gasp, "I was being sarcastic!"

"Oh." Holmes frowned. "I see. Well, regardless, have you given my request any further thought?"

I could do naught but shake my head in utter disbelief and amazement. Mr Holmes's expression darkened, for he had misread this as a refusal, but I swiftly stood and stuck out my hand. Tentatively, he took it.

"Thus begins your association with Scotland Yard." I said, when the handshake was done and I had managed to gain some control of myself. "I'll let you know if we need anything."

He nodded briskly, turned on his heel and swept out. The constable hurried quickly after.

"Bloody hell." I sat back down at my desk, and still all I could do was shake my head and exclaim, "Eighteen..!"


	9. Elaborate

A/N: Originally posted as a response to prompt 50 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge, from way back when. Prompt word is the title.

* * *

Elaborate

It was decided early in my association with Sherlock Holmes, by the very man himself, that as I recovered from my war wounds so too should I begin to recover my former fighting skills.

"Tell me Doctor, what styles of combat are you acquainted with?"

We were stood across from one another, all the furniture in the living room cleared to one side, and I confess I felt rather apprehensive. Aside from the tussle with Jefferson Hope in that very first case, I had otherwise not engaged in combat since my time in Maiwand.

"We were schooled in basic hand-to-hand combat in the army." I watched as he adopted a most peculiar half-squatted stance, hands raised almost in the manner of a boxer although his palms remained flat. "Most of what I know, I admit, is rather... intuitive. I was a doctor, after all, more than a soldier. Still, whatever it is, it did get me out of Afghanistan in one piece."

He began to bounce a little upon his bowed legs, shifting his weight between each one. "I do not deny you have the will, Watson. The technique, however, is another matter. Now I am going to attack you in a moment, and I want you to defend yourself as you might usually."

"As I might usually?" He had told me in great detail of his own fighting prowess, and I did not doubt the strength that belied his wiry frame. "You are certain?"

"Absolutely. Once I have overpowered you, we can reexamine exactly where you need to improve. Now! Prepare yourself!"

He rushed at me and I dropped instantly into a defensive stance. As he moved his hands and arms in a rather distracting manner - this was perhaps the baritsu he had so raved of - I bent and ran forward, ploughing my shoulder into his midriff. We both fell to the ground, but of course my own fall was cushioned somewhat by his lean body pinned beneath me.

"Oof."

I had never heard such a sound from Sherlock Holmes before and it, coupled with the loud and unpleasant thunk of his head against the floor, had me rolling off him in an instant.

"Are you alright?"

He blinked up at the ceiling and shook his head forcefully, evidently dazed. Eventually he looked to me with utter perplexion.

"That move, what was it?"

"Oh, just a rugby tackle." I offered my hand and pulled him up, steadying him as he tottered a little. "Not elaborate, but I suppose it does the trick."

"Indeed." He scrutinised me closely with his, somewhat unfocused, gaze. "You are full of surprises, Watson. Perhaps I have more to learn from you than I first thought."

"After I have examined your head," I promised, for I was certain I must have given him a mild concussion to have him sprouting such compliments.


	10. Interrogation

A/N: Originally posted as a response to prompt 51 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge, from way back when. Prompt word is the title.

* * *

Interrogation

We found him in the husk of a disused cotton mill, bound tightly to one of the abandoned workstations and covered in blood from a blow to the back of his head. His left eye was swollen shut in a purple swelling and I would learn of more extensive injuries at the hospital, not to mention severe dehydration borne from a lack of nourishment in the three days he had been missing. By all rights he should have been catatonic but, ever one for defying my expectations, Watson cracked open his one good eyelid as we approached and managed to slur,

"T... Took you... long en... enough..."

"My apologies." I knelt before him to brace his shoulders as a police constable sawed away the ropes that pinioned his arms behind him. "Seems you've managed to get yourself into a spot of bother."

'Didn'... Didn'... Tell any... anything..."

"You should have!" I snapped before I could stop myself. It had been a trying few days during which I myself had barely slept or eaten. "Stubborn fool."

He took my waspish attitude in good humour, split lip twisting into a ragged grimace. "D... Don't want t'hear... you... say I c... can't lie... con...vinc...ingly... 'nymore..."

I shook my head with a melodramatic sigh, taking his weight as the ropes finally snapped and he slumped forward. "Very well, but only if you swear to utilise less extreme methods to convince me of such things in the future."

Of course he chose that moment to finally pass out. I do say chose, for I am convinced he could have stayed awake longer and decided not to so as to avoid agreeing to my condition. Stubborn fool indeed.


	11. Liberty

**A/N:** Originally posted as a response to prompt 52 in reflekshun's 100-day challenge, from way back when. Prompt word is the title.

* * *

Liberty

There was a grudging respect between Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Lestrade. Although I may not have made it explicit in my own writings Lestrade was an established detective in his own right before the young and somewhat-outrageous upstart who was my dearest friend made his way onto the scene. I knew little of the specifics of their association before I myself had entered into Holmes's career, or indeed even how the two of them had first met, but I easily saw the particular fondness the little detective had for Holmes.

As a younger man, I had little cause to think much deeper than that. Lestrade was a friend, a very good one as I discovered during the years Holmes was presumed dead, and I was grateful. Now I am older I think back on his and Holmes's long association, which has at last ended with Lestrade's passing two weeks ago. He died, so I am informed, surrounded by an extensive and loving family on a trip to visit grandchildren in Northumberland. Holmes has been quiet since we received the news, in a telegram from Stanley Hopkins who I have come to consider Holmes and Lestrade's shared prodigy. Silly really, Hopkins must be at least forty years old! Still, neither Holmes nor myself like to consider ourselves elderly. Not yet, at least.

We have plans to attend the funeral tomorrow, down in London, and afterwards Hopkins has invited us to take a drink in Lestrade's honour. So here I sit, unable to sleep, thinking back on that simple, unassuming friendship that could easily be considered the backbone of Holmes's career. What was it that Lestrade saw in Holmes, to forge an association even longer than mine?

"Watson?"

The bowed head, now shot with strands of silver, lifted wearily.

"So sorry, Holmes, I didn't mean to wake you."

They had arranged the living room in the Sussex cottage much as it had been in Baker Street, a sofa to one side and two armchairs that faced one another before the fireplace. Holmes dropped into one of these and Watson moved from his writing desk to sit in the other.

"You have been thinking of Lestrade," Holmes surmised and, with a glance to the notebook clutched in his companion's hand, added, "Writing about him?"

"Just getting my thoughts out." Watson yawned. "What time is it?"

"Nearly 4 o'clock. You still need to pick up your new spectacles," Holmes chastised, for the mantelpiece clock was in plain view.

"Well I shall have to put it off until after the funeral at any rate."

Holmes hummed an agreement. "What thoughts in particular were keeping you awake?"

"Too many." Watson rubbed at his eyes. "Too many to list now at any rate. We must both be up early tomorrow."

Holmes's brow creased with faint concern. "Yes, we both must be. Why not tell me just one thought, Watson?"

"Just one thought? Ah well..." Watson shifted in his armchair, seeking a position that might ease the throbbing pain in his leg that was near constant these days. "I suppose then... How is it you and Lestrade came to be associated?"

"Ha! As easy a question as that, to put your mind at rest?" Holmes closed his eyes, much in the manner he might have done in the old days as he listened to a client tell him their troubles. This time, however, it was he who spoke. "I have already told you of Victor Trevor and his small problem which led me to my career. The difficulty came, however, in making the transition from private to consulting detective. The work of a private detective-" Here he opened his eyes to fix Watson with a playful glare, "-becomes tedious swiftly. Lost jewels, lost family members, affairs... Endless affairs, Watson!

"So, eventually, I approached the police and asked if they wanted help with any of their unsolved cases. I knew, always, that this was where the strangest crimes were likeliest to appear. There were not many willing to start a newcomer such as myself, so I targeted Peter Jones."

"Peter Jones?! But you despise the man!"

Holmes smiled thinly. "Because he is an imbecile, as his contemporaries at the Yard well knew. He, I surmised, had the most to gain from my assistance. Working with him, however, proved... difficult."

"Impossible I should imagine," Watson muttered as an aside. "What, then, of Lestrade? He saw Jones's success and approached you?"

"Not quite. We had interacted at the Yard, a passing introduction and no more. However I had read of a case he was looking into, a well-publicised murder with a simple solution, and offered my opinion."

"Unsolicited?"

Holmes smirked. "Naturally."

"And how did he take that?"

"He was irritated, but looked into it, and soon realised their chief suspect was indeed innocent. Meanwhile, Jones refused to listen to my thoughts on a robbery and was himself about to arrest the wrong man out of spite, so I approached Lestrade and he had Jones taken off the case."

"So between you you ensured the liberty of not one, but two men and thus your acquaintance began."

Holmes looked searchingly at his companion. "Now you have heard the story, do you find your thoughts have quietened?"

Watson smiled. "I could never quite see the reason for a link between you two, merely took it for granted that it existed. Now I understand it was your joint thirst for justice and a strong moral compass that bonded you."

Holmes nodded solemnly. "My fruitful association with the Yard, and all my ensuing success, could be said to be owed to him."

"Then you must thank him for that tomorrow." Watson made to stand, accepting Holmes's hand gratefully as the ex-detective sprang up to assist him and wincing as he straightened his ailing leg. "And me as well, for I have benefited at least as much as you have from his influence. For now though, let us sleep. After all, the Inspector would want us on nothing less than top form to pay our respects."

"That he would, Watson. Goodnight."


	12. Of Women and Deerstalkers

**A/N:** December 2nd response from December Calendar Challenge 2012. Prompt was from Alice Wright: The hat

The Sherlock Holmes play first premiered in New York City in 1899.

* * *

Of Women and Deerstalkers

The rapturous applause which had filled the theatre finally faded into conversation and people began to leave their seats, but Sherlock Holmes remained deathly still, his expression one of the utmost horror. I cleared my throat awkwardly.

"Dare I ask what your opinion on the play was?" I asked, a trifle fast for fear of his reaction. He turned to me, stricken.

"That-" he stammered, and gestured to the stage, "-that was… was pure fantasy!"

"Yes, well, perhaps we should leave," was my reply. I knew my friend could become most passionate in his outrage, and already those nearest us cast dirty looks in our direction. "Come, we can hail a cab, try some of the local cuisine-"

"Cuisine," Holmes scoffed. "What do these Americans know of cuisine?! I can only hope it is a great deal more than they know of writing and performing plays!"

I laughed nervously and attempted, in vain, to calm my friend down. "Holmes, it wasn't so awful-"

"Awful – ha!" he cried at the very top of his voice. "That was not awful, it was worse than awful! Abysmal, appalling – absolute codswallop! To think, to think they would… would…" He trailed away, but I felt I had a shrewd idea of what he was thinking.

"To what, Holmes?"

"To insert some… woman-" He spat the word as though it were pure poison. "-into my life and as a- a lover of all things!" He sat for a moment, near apoplectic with rage. "Come Watson – let us depart. I cannot stand any more of this!"

I leapt to my feet, all too eager to leave. "Certainly!"

We both walked swiftly toward the exit, Holmes still grumbling. "And the costume – good God Watson! The cape, perhaps I could live with… but the hat-!"

"Perhaps now you will come to appreciate my own writing a little more? After all it would be simple for me to, say, drop Miss Alice Faulkner into my next account-"

"Don't you dare!"


	13. Beast

**A/N:** December 14th response from December Calendar Challenge 2012. Prompt was from Poseidon God of the Seas: Taming the Hound of the Baskervilles.

* * *

Beast

"Watson, remove this blasted puppy at once!"

I laid aside my medical journal with a sigh. It would seem my dog was, once again, causing Holmes some aggravation.

"Beast." Holmes glared at the animal who continued to chew, oblivious, at the detective's slippers. "Ought to get it put down..."

"Honestly Holmes. Just move your slippers and the problem is solved."

"They're on my feet!"

"Oh stop making excuses."

* * *

"Doctor Watson I am terribly sorry but I can't be dealing with that puppy's whining. It bothers all the neighbours!"

"He's simply lonely," I pleaded with our landlady. "He misses me when I'm off on a case with Mr Holmes. Perhaps if-"

"He's not coming with us," Holmes shot darkly from his armchair. "I get enough of that beast at home."

I looked down at the pup sadly. He was, currently, quite content to be still and quiet at my feet. But Mrs Hudson was right. It wasn't fair on the dog to leave him alone at all hours of the day.

"Very well. I will search for suitable owner."

* * *

Holmes performed quite an admirable job of concealing his delight at the dog's departure.

"You mustn't feel badly Watson. It was only fair on the beast- er... on the... poor thing."

I forced a smile, but was unconvinced as to whether I had done the right thing.

* * *

I sprang to my feet, my inert hand grasping my pistol, my mind paralyzed by the dreadful shape which had sprung out upon us from the shadows of the fog. A hound it was, an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen. Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame. Never in the delirious dream of a disordered brain could anything more savage, more appalling, more hellish be conceived than that dark form and savage face which broke upon us out of the wall of fog. **[1]**

The hound turned to me and I felt my blood run cold. I heard Holmes shouting my name from afar and raised my gun, but it was too late. The beast was upon me.

Seconds passed, in the course of which I realised that I was _not_ being horribly mauled.

"Watson?" Holmes spoke from somewhere above. "Are you alright?"

"I- I think so," was my bewildered reply. The dog was still crouched on top of me, front paws pinning me down by my shoulders. Its fur glowed in the moonlight, but so too did the front of my coat. "Holmes, I believe this hound isn't quite so demonic as we had first surmised."

"No," he mused. "It would seem to be some kind of phosphorous compound causing it to glow like that."

"Mr Holmes?" Sir Henry's voice rang out. "What the devil is going on? Is Doctor Watson alright?"

"I'm fine!" I called out from beneath the dog, who panted happily over my face. I wrinkled my nose at the stale dog breath. "Where's Lestrade?"

"I'm here." The Inspector's voice sounded further away than either Holmes's or Sir Henry's had. "If everyone is safe, then I think I may go and see about Stapleton now Mr Holmes." His squelching footsteps faded away.

"Is Lestrade afraid of dogs, do you suppose?" I asked absently. Mud had started to seep through the back of my coat.

"I don't understand!" Sir Henry sounded utterly nonplussed. "Why is it acting so friendly? It was about ready to tear my throat out!"

I felt Holmes's feet shifting behind my head. "Perhaps, should I approach it in the right way-"

The hound snapped at Holmes's shoes, which had just appeared in the corner of my eye, and he stumbled backward with a curse.

"Vicious beast," he hissed, and then gasped. "Oh! Of course!"

"Holmes? What is it?"

"Watson, you once owned a puppy, do you recall? You were forced to give it away?"

I grunted as the hound trod somewhere in the region of my sternum, and deemed it safe enough to push the creature away. My trousers and jacket were now thoroughly soaked. "You think it is the same dog, now grown?"

I sat up and the dog barked eagerly, and as I regained my feet he jumped up and down in frenzied attempts to lick my face. Holmes watched on wryly and did not bother answering.

* * *

"Strange really," I mused, patting the hound's head. "That it would remember me after so long."

Lestrade, who had met us back at Baskerville Hall, looked on with a visible gulp. "Yes, well, I certainly hope you won't be bringing that to any of my crime scenes Doctor Watson."

Holmes sniffed disdainfully. "I should certainly hope not."

"Come along Holmes. Surely after so long you two might be able to finally get along?"

As if in agreement, the dog licked hopefully at the detective's hand.

"Beast," Holmes muttered, but his lips quirked into a smile as he scratched the dog beneath its chin.

* * *

**[1]** Direct quote from The Hound of the Baskervilles.


	14. Welcome Home

A/N: December 19th response from December Calendar Challenge 2012. Prompt was from embracetheweird: Favourite music

* * *

Welcome Home

The smooth wood beneath his chin, the smell of the finish. He drew in a deep breath, revelling in the familiarity of it all. He held the bow aloft for a moment, then brought it scraping lovingly across the strings. He fell back into the music effortlessly. The last three years might have been a dream.

Mrs Hudson must have shown Watson in, for when next Holmes looked up, there his friend stood, a smile on his face and his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"Welcome home, dear fellow."


	15. Beyond

**A/N:** December 20th response from December Calendar Challenge 2012. Prompt was from Werepanther33: Angel

* * *

Beyond

_Stupid. Stupid, foolish, idiotic..._ but self recrimination is pointless now. He is going to die. It is inevitable. A foregone conclusion.

"No," I whisper and the torso beneath my hands jerks, blood oozing past my bunched up coat jacket and between my fingers no matter how much pressure I apply. _Please no..._

A cough. A moan.

"H-Holmes..?"

He's dying. What do I say? What can I say?

"I'm- I'm here Watson." I hope he does not catch that telling stumble in my words. Now is not the time to fall apart. "Scotland Yard are on the way."

"And... Brohan..?"

"Dead." I do not glance to the body in the corner. Another foregone conclusion. "Watson..." What do I tell him? "Watson I-"

But he is gone, unconscious again. No one is coming to help, and all I can do is listen to his breathing. It is laboured, a struggle, but still he persists and I am so focused on each difficult breath, each shaky rise and fall of the ribcage, that at first I do not notice the sounds from outside the room.

Footsteps. Voices. Distant, but most definitely there.

"The Yard..." I breathe, a world of hope emerging before me. Looking down, Watson's face is so pale as to nearly shine in the darkness. He doesn't have long left. I am loathe to leave him, for fear he will die here alone, but reluctantly I stand.

"Watson the Yard I- I will not be long I-" I'm wasting time. "I will not be long."

I am sprinting, halfway out the door, when his voice rings out. It is dry and hoarse with lack of air.

"Mary..."

But already I am gone, bellowing for the Yard, for anyone, to come and help.

* * *

The Doctor had said it would be days before he awoke, that it was a miracle he survived at all. But then Watson has always had an obstinate streak, and the luck of the Devil himself.

"Holmes?" He speaks in a mumble, eyes barely open.

I grasp his hand where it lies upon the white hospital coverlet. "I suggest you sleep, my dear fellow."

He falls silent, I assume because he has fallen back under the influence of several strong sedatives the surgeons gave him, but just as I am about to release his hand he speaks again.

"Where is Mary?

The simple question is enough to stun me for a few moments.

"She- she passed away." I wonder whether he has somehow sustained memory loss from the trauma he has been through, but his next response suggests otherwise.

"I thought so."

And with that he falls asleep. I drop his hand and leave the hospital to lay a bouquet of flowers beneath Mary Watson's gravestone.

"Thank you," I murmur softly to the grave. I expect no response, but am grateful all the same.


End file.
